


Bedsharing for Idiots, Miscreants, and Noble Knights of Camelot

by Reccea



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Five Times, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-24
Updated: 2020-02-24
Packaged: 2021-02-26 13:25:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22885387
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Reccea/pseuds/Reccea
Summary: Five times they shared a bed and one time Lance slept on the floor.
Relationships: Gwaine/Lancelot (Merlin)
Comments: 24
Kudos: 102





	Bedsharing for Idiots, Miscreants, and Noble Knights of Camelot

**Author's Note:**

> This was written during the halcyon days between seasons 3 and 4- where we had a full set of knights and no impending demises. Ah well. So this basically is an au from season 3 and don’t think too hard about any and all continuity or character errors. It’s been languishing on my drive for years and I decided surely someone else in the world thought Lance and Gwaine would be kind of amazing together. 
> 
> As always, thanks to Smitty for any and all hand holding, grammar fixing, and tense changing. Any mistakes are my own.

** 1\. The Horse and Cart Inn **

Gwaine pays for the room because Lance looks even worse and the last thing they need is for the innkeeper to think they’re trouble. (Especially given the fact that they probably _are_ trouble, all things considered.)

Gwaine smiles his best smile, digs out what’s left of his coins, and secures the use of the stables and one small room. 

“The last room we’ve got,” The woman says severely. Gwaine gives up his pay and heads back out to where Lance is waiting with the horses. 

“Just the one bed,” Gwaine says brusquely, snagging the reigns and leading his horse and his fellow knight around back to where the innkeeper had said the horses could be fed and watered. “But we’ll get a meal out of it and that’s better than it might’ve been.” 

Lance has got another man’s blood on his face, a wrenched shoulder, and is limping from a bruise on his thigh. He doesn’t disagree with Gwaine’s assessment.

Gwaine gets the food brought to them, along with a large bucket of steaming water. They scrub at their faces and hands, getting weeks’ worth of dirt and battle off them. Gwaine’s forgotten what his hands looked like because there was the normal, necessary accumulation of dirt, and then there was chasing a band of marauders through the countryside for nearly a whole moon cycle accumulation of dirt. 

Gwaine thinks he maybe forgot what Lancelot looked like as well, because with his face scrubbed red and his beard scraped away, Lance looks like no one Gwaine knows. 

The food is a stew that’s more potato than meat. Gwaine’s decent enough to at least try to halve the meat portions between the bowls. 

“I’ll take the floor,” Lance offers, because there’s one bed and Lance is the self sacrificing sort. 

Gwaine shrugs off his shirt and says, “If I’ve anything catching, you’ve already caught it. We’ll share and you just try not to ravish me in the night.”

Lance spares him an odd look and Gwaine had forgotten that sometimes Lance’s sense of humor takes a kip. Gwaine kicks off one boot and then the other. “I _am_ fairly impossible to resist,” he explains. “Leave broken hearts wherever I go.”

“And broken tables.” There’s the beginnings of a smile on Lance’s face.

Gwaine grins. “Goes hand in hand really.”

Lance shakes his head, but it’s a pleased sort of expression. Gwaine forgets, sometimes, that he’s not the only one covering blind country here. That Lance hasn’t quite got a read on him either. Gwaine fancies himself to be simple enough to understand- a good tavern and a good fight being all he requires from life- but maybe Lance fancies himself the same. 

Gwaine lays his sword against the head of the bed nearest the door and settles down under the covers. “Get the candle?” he asks.

“Of course.” It’s a few moments before Lance gets into the other side of the bed. The frame creaks once he settles in, but Gwaine’s been in enough beds to know when the creaking means imminent collapse and this one’s still a ways out from that. The candle is blown out and then it’s just darkness, with the moonlight coming in through the small window, and silence but for a distant wind and their own heavy breathing.

Gwaine’s slept on floors with other men too often to count, and he’s shared a fair few beds, but there’s something uncomfortably intimate, lying back to back in this small room with the great and noble Lancelot, who Arthur had sent with him probably from a hope that some of the greatness -or at the very least politeness- would rub off on Gwaine. Apparently Arthur’s a man for lost causes.

**2\. Stables, roughly six days ride from Mercia**

Their packs are still wet from the downpour this morning. They are six days out from Mercia, which is a fair distance, but they don’t feel any closer to home. Given the circumstances (all of them being Gwaine’s fault) they’ve had to keep away from the villages on their way back to Camelot. 

They’ve spent the last five nights out in the open, under canopies of trees, tucked against an outcropping of rock, and in the middle of a barren field. But tonight, it’s pouring down like mad and Lance couldn’t refuse Gwaine when he spotted a building in the distance. 

It’s a large building, probably the home of one of Uther’s loyal noblemen, but they can’t be sure and the lord isn’t home in either case. The servants deign to offer the currently empty stable for both the horses and the men. Gwaine’s bombastic in his acceptance and Lance himself is just quietly grateful to be out of the rain for the night.

Gwaine manages warm broth from one of the kitchen hands and they’re left alone to sort their horses and their blankets in the darkness of the stable. It isn’t the worst Lance’s seen, not by far, but the smell is ranker than it should be and Lance, having had a rough few weeks of it, can’t help but comment. 

Gwaine laughs, his big bray of a laugh that echoes through the place. "Come now, Lancelot, smelling like the horses isn't so bad once you get used to it."

For a moment, Lance doesn’t know quite what to say. But it’s Gwaine settling down on the straw. Gwaine, who- rumor has it- has spent more time in dungeons sleeping off his drink than actual nights on any sort of bed. So Lance doesn’t feel out of line when he asks,"This is almost normal for you, isn't it?"

Gwaine tucks his arms behind his head and considers this. “I wouldn’t go so far as to say normal. Inn floors would be normal, but stables aren’t really my forte.”

Lance hesitates, “You just said....”

Gwaine smiles, eyes gleaming in the faint light. “There was this one time, though, at my uncle’s farm. My mother’s half-brother had a large plot towards the edges of the kingdom. Good farmland, but he was more about animals than growing food. And he had these chickens. Ridiculous creatures, chickens are, don’t you agree?”

Lance settled down onto the hay next to him. “They can be,” he allowed.

“I’ve always thought so.” Gwaine shifts a little, settling in deeper, close enough to Lance that he can feel the bend of the straw at his movements.

“My mom sent my brother Gareth and I to spend a season with my uncle one year. Harvest time, need all the help you can get, and Gareth and I were pretty useless around home. Gareth was always tricking Gaheris- my youngest brother- into something dangerous or stupid and my mum had about had it. So off we went to pick carrots or beans. I don’t even remember. Because my uncle had these chickens. Nasty buggers, but they had these ridiculous head feathers. You ever seen the type?”

Lance has seen plenty of chickens, a few running wild, but mostly corralled in and he can’t say that he’s ever paid much attention to just how they look. “No?” he hazards.

“Ah,” Gwaine says with a sigh. “They’re funny, actually. Especially when they get _accidentally_ let loose.”

Lance puts a hand to his mouth. “You didn’t.”

“Gareth did most of the work.” Gwaine shrugs, his arm brushing Lance’s. “But I didn’t stop him.”

“Your uncle must have been furious.”

“Oh he sent us packing off home the minute he could. He spent the better part of a week tracking them all down. Gareth and I hid in this tiny corner of the stable for two nights until Gareth couldn’t take the cold and I got around to being a man and taking my punishment.” Gwaine sighed restlessly. “It was worth it though, the whole thing. Watching them run around like mad things over open land is one of the funniest things I’ve ever seen.”

Lancelot didn’t have any particularly funny stories to share, not that he could think of offhand. And he wasn’t much of a storyteller anyhow. But he felt relaxed, actually comfortable with Gwaine for a moment and he didn’t want it to end. So he shifted a little, folding his arms across his chest, and tried not to sound prying when he said, “I didn’t know you had any brothers.”

Gwaine is quiet for a moment, leaving Lance to listen to the snuffling of the two horses at the far end of the stable. 

“I haven’t seen Gareth in years.” Gwaine’s voice is soft, hollow sounding. “Not since my mother died. Gaheris lives with my uncle now, actually. I should see him more but I...”

Lance swallows, regret pooling in his stomach.

“I’ve never been a very good influence. I’d be better now, I hope, but. My uncle never had any sons so Gaheris has--” Gwaine clears his throat. “He’s better off where he is.”

“You’re a knight of Camelot.” Lance shifts his arm, pressing it against Gwaine’s. “You’re a good fighter, and one of the most honorable men I know. Your brother would be proud to look up to you.”

Gwaine chuckled, but it didn’t sound raw or quite as tired as Lance would have expected. “You’ve never had a little brother, have you? Because once they start taking an interest in women, they’re well done with idolizing their older brothers.”

Lancelot had not had any siblings, and has no family left to speak of. But still, he elbows Gwaine in the side and says firmly, “I doubt that.”

“You have much to learn about the world, young Lancelot,” Gwaine intones deeply, overdramatically.

Lance snickers. “You have much to learn about people,” he replies.

“First blood to Lancelot,” Gwaine announces to the stable at large. One of the horses whinny in return, restlessly.

“Stop shouting before you get us tossed back out into the downpour,” Lance claps a hand over Gwaine’s mouth.

Gwaine waits barely a second before licking Lance’s bare palm. Lance jerks his hand back. “Uncalled for,” he mutters.

Gwaine snorts and then hums softly before asking, “You know, I did sleep in a tree once. In the branches.”

Lance accepts the change of subject readily. “What did you do to deserve that?”

Gwaine sighs loudly. “Well. There was this girl.”

Lance finds himself smiling. “Of course there was.”

**3\. The Hollow Caves on the shores of Avalon Lake, midwinter**

“And he said, ‘sir! That’s my dress!’” Gwaine finishes with a flourish.

It’s a ridiculous joke, rambling and too long but for some reason it just strikes Lancelot. He can’t help but laugh, loud, breathless laughing that makes his eyes water and his chest hurt. 

“He laughs!” Gwaine crows, so obviously delighted “He’s alive!”

“That was a terrible joke,” Lance says, still half chuckling and wiping his eyes.

“Best kind of joke, the terrible ones,” Gwaine replies, so proud and pleased, smiling with his whole face.

“I know.” Lance grins in return.

“You should laugh more,” Gwaine nudges his horse so he’s closer to Lance, can slap at his shoulder. “It’s good for you. Can’t be proper and knightly all the time.”

“Who says it’s not proper and knightly to laugh?” Lance asks, still smiling, tempted to slap back.

Gwaine considers it, tapping his mouth with one finger. After a dramatically drawn out silence he says, “...Uther?”

Lance bows his head. “Fair point to Sir Gwaine.”

“Likely the only point in battle against you, I shall ever win!” Gwaine throws his arms up in the air. “I shall cherish it!”

Lance rolls his eyes and is about to object, to compliment Gwaine’s fighting prowess because the man _is_ exceptional in battle, but in that bare moment of silence there is a sound.

“Did you--?” Gwaine whispers.

Lance nods, slowly and quietly drawing his sword from its sheath.

“Damn,” Gwaine murmurs, also arming himself, “I did too.”

There is little to see through the dense thicket of the trees, but in the white coat of winter Lance knows their own blood red garments are impossible to miss. Lance urges his horse forward, a clearing opening before them onto a frozen over lake.

It’s a small lake, long but easily crossed at the width. Which is a problem because across the lake is a small army of men. And they are not of Camelot.

“Oh hell,” Gwaine says, not even bothering to be quiet.

They’re quite outnumbered. But the distance to Camelot and the long day they’ve already given their horses mean outrunning the men isn’t likely. Lance considers it but Gwaine is already leaping off his horse. 

“Do you think the lake’s frozen through?” Gwaine asks.

Fighting on a frozen lake is a fool’s game. It’s winter, the cold is bone deep, but it hasn’t been so for long enough that the ice can be trusted. 

“Doubtful,” Lance says.

“Well, that’s our chance then, yeah?” Gwaine grins so wide and fearless that it has to be an act.

There’s a shout from across the way, not in a language Lance knows, but he can guess what it means well enough. Lance swings down off his horse. “Just try to stay close to the edge,” he orders. 

“Absolutely,” Gwaine agrees. Before tearing off towards the men.

Lance curses and runs after him.

Gwaine’s charge has what Lance hopes was the desired reaction. The other men, upon seeing Gwaine, roar and race out to meet him. Gwaine is ten strides across the lake when he meets his first opponent, a giant of man with a giant of a sword. But Gwaine trains daily with Percival so a giant of a man is no extraordinary thing. The man goes down in five swings.

From there it’s mostly chaos. Lance and Gwaine are both the sort of men who’ve fought for their livelihoods, and those sorts of men often fight one against many. Not ideal circumstances but Lance trusts that Gwaine can handle himself and Lance knows he will fare just as well.

Over the shouts and clash of swords, it was nearly impossible to hear the ice creaking. 

Lance slides out of the way of one sword- causing its owner to stumble on the slick ice- and uses his momentum to swing around and cold cock the next man in line. Gwaine is using his opponents against each other, throwing one into a small group and knocking four off their feet. Gwaine laughs, calling out taunts as he weaves and thrashes. It’s a messy way of fighting, but it gets the job done.

Lance guts one man, strikes the next across the neck, then ducks a blow and brings the handle of his sword down on his opponent’s head. He jumps out of the way of a mace and lands awkwardly on the ice, skidding back towards the lake’s edge.

Lance is the furthest out from the fight now, and Gwaine, though still tilting like a berserker, is being slowly surrounded, the bulk of the men heading towards the center of the ice. Lance stumbles to one knee, trying to stop himself from sliding too far out, and sticks his sword down to get purchase on the ice and get himself moving back in the right direction. 

The creak from the ice is suddenly audible above the clamour.

Lance shouts Gwaine’s name but he knows there’s no way Gwaine will get out from the group without help. Lance pushes himself forward, running clumsily for the center of the lake. He can see Gwaine fighting, cutting through in Lance’s direction, his expression determined, his cheek splattered with blood. He’s almost at the edge of the pack and Lance is nearly to him when the ice gives way.

Gwaine and the men around him go down into the water.

Lance curses, dropping to his knees and then his belly, sliding so he can get close but trying not to test the ice further. Some of the men surface, gasping and clawing at the freezing water. Gwaine is, thank the gods, one of them, his hair plastered to his face, hands reaching for and barely missing the ice.

Gwaine goes back down with the momentum of trying. Lance can hear him choke and sputter, knows his sounds amid all the others. Gwaine’s hands come back up, red sleeves visible beneath the vambraces, fingers grasping the ice and sliding back off, just as Lance inches close enough.

Lance strains out, fingers spread wide and there, he feels the edge of Gwaine’s hand. He grabs hold, pulling with all his might until his arm and Gwaine’s break the surface of the water. He grabs hold with both hands, hauling back until Gwaine’s head breaks the surface.

Gwaine gasps for air, reaching out with his free hand to grab hold of the ledge of the ice.

“Careful,” Lance snaps, trying to pull Gwaine out of the water without cracking the ice any further. 

Gwaine tries to say something but he’s shivering too hard to make any sense. Lance pulls harder and Gwaine manages to get his arms braced on the ice and Lance latches onto his torso and together they manage to get Gwaine out of the water.

Getting off the ice is tricky. They’re both heavy in their armor, and with every shift the ice around them cracks more. Lance inches backwards like a worm, pulling Gwaine slowly, hoping that their weight is spread out enough that the ice will hold. It’s slow going, and Gwaine’s shivering so hard that the crossing is almost impossible. Lancelot almost cries when they reach the shore, his arms and legs trembling. He crouches on his knees, and grabs Gwaine about the waist and drags him off onto the steady earth and hard packed snow. 

“That was fun,” Gwaine says, his voice shaking and almost impossible to understand. Lance doesn’t bother replying, just gets to work, pulling off Gwaine’s soaked boots and the well-darned socks underneath. 

“What’re you doing?” Gwaine tries to evade Lance’s grasp but his movements are jerky and weak. Lance unbuckles Gwaine’s belt, tosses it and the scabbard attached a short distance away and starts to wrestle Gwaine out of his chain mail. “You’re soaked. We need to get you out of these clothes and into something warm or you’ll freeze to death.”

“I’m not even shivering,” Gwaine says, as if his lips weren’t a purple blue.

"You've stopped shivering because you're too cold to shiver," Lance tells him matter of factly. He’s seen a man die like this, before, seen the shivering stop and the confusion mount. Seen him tear off his garments and fall asleep bare and frozen. Lance had been trapped at the time, unable to do anything, but he’d never forgotten. 

Gwaine sways with the movement, arms limp while Lance awkwardly divests him of the chainmail, But when it’s up and off, Gwaine manages a lazy familiar smirk. "You really don't need an excuse, if you want me out of my clothes." The effect is ruined by the way the cold slurs Gwaine’s words. 

“Thanks,” Lance mutters, trying to smile, but his fingers feel like the ice as they free Gwaine from his undershirt and then clumsily start on the ties of Gwaine’s breeches. 

“Do you undress other men often?” Gwaine mutters, and Lance spares a second to look up so Gwaine will see him rolling his eyes. Gwaine grins, delighted. “You do have a sense of humor in there somewhere!” he crows.

“Sadly, you don’t,” Lance parries back. Their packs and their horses are in reach, so he leaves Gwaine just long enough to get the blankets from their packs. It’s not enough, not for this, but it’s what they have.

Once Gwaine is tucked into the blankets, Lance gets to building a fire. Gathering enough dry wood to last the night takes more time and then he lays out Gwaine’s clothes as near as he can to the fire, so that in the morning there will be something for him to put on. 

Once the fire is strong and steadily burning, Lance starts on his own garments. Getting his own clothes off is easier, barely, but no more enjoyable. Getting under the blankets and against Gwaine isn’t awkward -survival never really is in Lance’s experience- but he curses fiercely at just how cold Gwaine’s skin feels to the touch.

“I promise not to tell Gwen,” Gwaine says nonsensically.

“Tell her what?” Lance asks mostly to keep Gwaine talking and coherent. He tucks a leg between Gwaine’s, getting exceptionally personal, but warming him up all over is the goal.  
Gwaine laughs, a soft rough thing that sounds out of place, but Lance can feel fine tremors again so he takes that as a good sign.

“That I’m molesting her favorite knight. Or her favorite knight’s molesting me, actually. This thing where we don’t have clothes.” Gwaine’s breath sounds shaky again and he tucks his face into Lance’s neck. 

Lance tugs the blankets higher, covering the top of Gwaine’s head, and doesn’t say anything for a long moment. He runs his hands up and down Gwaine’s back, friction from his calloused palms against the battle scarred skin making his hands feel damn warm and he’s hoping that’s true of Gwaine as well.

Gwaine’s legs curl up a little, like he’s trying to get even closer to Lance which isn’t possible. “I’m so damn cold,” Gwaine whispers.

“Good,” Lance says, “I think that’s good.”

“My bollocks are going to fall off,” Gwaine replies, his teeth beginning to chatter in earnest. “That’s not _good_.”

Lance takes Gwaine’s hands between his own, rubbing circles into the skin, trying to get the blood flowing. “If you can still feel them, they’re probably fine.”

“Oh I can still feel them,” Gwaine murmurs, trying and failing to give Lance a flirtatious wink. The man just looks blue and miserable. 

Lance takes his other hand, starts the same process. Gwaine tucks the warmed hand between them, and his breathing is labored, from the pain of his nerves waking up, Lance hopes.

“It’s going to be a long night,” Gwaine sighs, tucking his face under Lance’s chin, cold nose pressing against the hollow of Lance’s throat. 

“The men we fought did not get a night at all, so we should feel lucky,” Lance replies. He tucks Gwaine’s other hand between them and wraps his arms around Gwaine’s back. He tries his best to warm Gwaine’s calves and feet, tucking his own feet against them, moving them up and down gently, mindful of where Gwaine’s thighs are and how quickly that could get painful. Or awkward. 

“I hate winter,” Gwaine says, his words only barely audible, his breath a warm humid spot on Lance’s skin. 

It’s going to be a long night, but Lance doesn’t want Gwaine to fall asleep, at least not yet. He’s still too cold and there seems too great a chance that if he sleeps now he will never wake.

“What’s your favorite season?” Lance asks, mouth pressed into Gwaine’s wet hair. 

“Spring, “Gwaine replies readily. He has his palms spread out on Lance’s chest, clenching and unclenching like it will keep them limber. “Everything’s alive and green and there are flowers to charm the ladies.”

Lance smiles. “You hardly need flowers.”

“Helps though, doesn’t it?” Gwaine chuckles. “You?”

“Same,” Lance replies. “I like watching the world waken once the snow melts.”

Gwaine hums something inaudible as he tries to tuck himself closer, legs tangling more, so they’re flush against each other all over. 

“What was that?” Lance asks, his hands making slow circles against Gwaine’s back, lingering over the raised scars he can feel, the dips of pockmarks.

“What do you reckon those soldiers were this far into Camelot for?” Gwaine turns his head a little so Lance can hear him better.

“Nothing good,” Lance replies. “But they fell into the water and did not come back up, so they had no magic protecting them.”

“Maybe not Morgana then,” Gwaine mutters.

“Maybe not,” Lance agrees, but he’s not sure if that’s a good thing. They have enough enemies, he would not welcome more. 

After a long moment Gwaine sighs. His hands settle a little lower, palms open and relaxed against Lance’s belly. “Thank you,” Gwaine says quietly, voice rough and wracked already. 

Lance does not ask for elaboration, it would do them both a disservice. And he does not wave off the gratitude for Gwaine deserves to have it met equally. “Of course,” Lance says softly. “You’re my friend.”

Gwaine doesn’t say anything to that, but Lance feels the smile spread against his collarbone.

**4\. The Royal Coronation of His Majesty, King Arthur Pendragon**

The Coronation of the soon-to-be-great King Arthur is apparently the most exciting thing to ever happen in the land. The entire land. From the coast to the coast and on up to that giant wall. Gwaine thinks this because it’s clear that nearly every person in all of the island has to be in Camelot or on their way.

The castle is overflowing with visiting knights and other nobles (Merlin muttered something about it being worse than the melee and Gwaine remembers a great deal about the melee but he doesn’t remember having to bow at every other person he passed. Not that Gwaine had been all that taken with bowing at the time.)

Gwaine’s a knight of Camelot, so he’s standing guard and watching the servants run around sorting baggage and readying rooms and readying more rooms and trying to convince people to share rooms and having minor breakdowns in hallways. He’s a knight of Camelot, so he has his own room, with his own bed and no concerns about where his trunks will go. (He still doesn’t own any trunks because they don’t do him a hell of a lot of good on quests, and he doesn’t travel unless he’s on a quest, a hunt, or a really bad idea.)

Lancelot is also a knight of Camelot, but he seems to be dragging a trunk of his own down a hallway. (Gwaine recognizes it from having to hide a magical amulet in Lancelot’s room this one time that he’s not inclined to talk about.)

“Where are you going?” he falls into line with Lance and surveys the trunk suspiciously.

“Gaius’s,” Lance grunts, elbowing Gwaine until Gwaine takes one side of trunk.

“Why?” Gwaine asks, because he’s learned that Lance is the sort that needs to be led into telling a story of any kind.

Lance frowns at him and Gwaine shoulders a more equitable part of the load. Lance says, “To put my things.”

Gwaine waits, and isn’t subtle about the waiting.

Lance is visibly unimpressed by the lack of subtlety but bends to the pressure. “I’ll be staying there until the coronation’s over.”

“You’re a knight of Camelot,” Gwaine says. 

“I’d noticed,” Lance agrees.

“You gave up your rooms for some blowhard noble, didn’t you.” Gwaine makes sure it isn’t a question.

“There’s not a lot of space left. I’m sure you’ve noticed.”

“You’re a knight of Camelot,” Gwaine repeats, feeling that maybe he didn’t give enough weight to it the first time. Being a knight of Camelot comes with a lot of grief and very little reward excepting a really decent bed and a room all to yourself.

“It’s just Gaius’s floor. We’ve all slept there.” Lance is smiling like he’s trying his best not to laugh at Gwaine, really.

“Yes,” Gwaine agrees, clapping his hand on Lance’s back and steering him firmly down a different hallway. “And we all know what the floor smells like. So I would be remiss in my duties as a knight of Camelot, if I did not offer up my own accommodations for your use.”

Lance shoots Gwaine a look. “What, so you can sleep on Gaius’s floor?”

Gwaine’s shudder is only a little theatrical. “No, definitely not. We’re going to share, you and me. The bed’s bigger than the one at the inn outside-” Gwaine thinks about it, “-where the hell was that? Not too far from Ealdor, was it?”

Lance ducks his head and says, “You honestly don’t mind?”

Gwaine claps him again for good measure and because watching Lance manfully not fall over from unexpected use of force is always delightful. “I’d be insulted if you refused.” 

“You are unbearable when insulted,” Lance says in fake consideration, his mouth already giving way to a smile.

Gwaine finds himself smiling back. “And here I was under the impression that you always found me unbearable.”

“Oh, not always,” Lance assures him.

Lance is a trusting enough sort to think leaving most of his valuables in his room is a good idea. Gwaine expects that the nobleman bunking there won’t have any interest in Lance’s training clothes, but he insists loudly and insultingly that Lance at least bring his valuables to Gwaine’s room where they’ll be safe.

Possibly, Gwaine was a little too loud in his insistence because halfway through the day, Percival shows up at Gwaine’s door, with his blankets and his very favorite sword in tow.

“Hello,” Gwaine says, gamely.

“Heard you were taking boarders,” Percival says.

Percival’s a very large man. Sweet as can be, certainly, but excessively tall and uncommonly strong. As such, he’s really not the sort of man you say no to if you can avoid it. Gwaine sizes him up. “The bed’s taken, but we can probably steal enough blankets for the floor.”

Percival smiles, and truly it is a sweet, thankful smile. Gwaine steps back and lets Percival, his blankets, and his sword inside.

Stealing the blankets takes some doing- and some harassing a very busy Merlin- but he gets Percival squared away. He’s pulling Percival’s small trunk of valuables into the one empty corner when there’s a knock at the door.

Gwaine sighs and stalks over to the door, throwing it open. He’s expecting it to be Merlin trying to get some of the blankets back, but it’s not Merlin at all. 

Leon looks... displeased with a side of embarrassed. “Hullo, Gwaine.”

“I didn’t think you knew where I lived,” Gwaine replies.

Leon’s mouth tightens but despite his obvious exasperation he says politely, “I try to keep track of everyone in the castle, particularly the knights.”

“That’s very alarming,” Gwaine leans against the door. “Not surprising in the least, but still alarming.”

Leon takes a moment and then says, “Merlin’s spilled something vile in Gaius’s rooms.”

Gwaine’s generally quite game to make Leon’s life hell, but there’s a certain tired desperation in Leon’s eyes that Gwaine can’t refuse. “It’s the floor for you. And you’ll have to wrestle blankets from Percival or see if you can bribe them from one of the servants.”

Leon says, “Thank you,” when Gwaine lets him in and it’s about as genuine as anything Gwaine’s ever heard from Leon. So Gwaine says, just as genuinely, “You’re welcome,” and helps Leon talk Perci into sharing.

There’s a banquet to attend (one of so very many) that has them all in their second finest (the actual finest is for the coronation the next day) drinking some amount of mead and making nice with unfamiliar maidens and putting up with all too familiar idiots. Gwaine manages to corral them all at the end of it, because it’ll be hard enough sleeping with all that snoring in one enclosed space, he doesn’t need them banging on the door at all hours to add to it. 

Leon and Percival get settled on the floor, with a gleefully drunk Elyan between them, singing the ballad the bard had composed in Gwen’s honor. Gwaine’s not sure who grabbed Elyan or when, but his singing voice was something to behold and be mocked.

Lance makes to take the floor as well and Gwaine should let him, really, but Gwaine gave his word and there really is room enough. He pushes Lance at the bed and then goes round to the other side. He has to sit down to get his finest boots off (they are stiff and new and not at all his favorites no matter how much they cost) and by the time he’s rid of them and his cloak and all the other bits and baubles that are uncomfortable, Lance is already tucked into one side of the bed.

Elyan announces to the room at large, “You are the best men I know.”

“Thank you,” Gwaine says just as grandly.

Leon says, “You’re going to be so sorry in the morning,” and then Lance snuffs the candle.

Gwaine gets into the bed, pulls the covers up to his chin and listens to Percival convince Leon to give up the right side of his pillow for Elyan. It’s surprisingly quiet, five people breathing, mumbling, and shifting in place. Gwaine’s shared rooms with more and with less, but he can’t remember ever being so content to do so. 

It’s not long before Elyan’s pleased mumblings turn into heavy, even breathing. Leon, always quick to sleep, follows soon after, and Gwaine is generally just as quick to sleep but he’s not as tired as he was when he dragged them all from the banquet. He stares at the canopy over his bed, barely visible in the darkness, and thinks about the coming ceremony and how already he is more proud to wear that gold dragon than he was before.

The bed shifts, Lancelot turning onto his side to face Gwaine. He says, softly, “I don’t know if you noticed, but I sleep on the floor all the time.”

“The forest floor,” Gwaine nods. “Which isn’t a stone floor let me tell you. Stone’s as cold as hell, especially this close to winter. 

“True enough,” Lance agrees and Gwaine hears the thanks in it.

Percival’s snores start up, obnoxiously loud, and Leon’s breathing has evened out into a series of little huffs and whistles. Gwaine picks at the seam of his pillow and keeps still on his side of the bed.

After a moment, Lancelot sighs, a soft sad sound that turns Gwaine’s chest, and whispers in the darkness, “Arthur’s a good man. He will be a great king."

It’s not Gwaine’s place, and while that’s never bothered him before, in this moment he feels the awkwardness keenly. Still, he can’t help but say- because it needs saying- “Just makes it all the worse that he’s marrying your girl."

Lance shifts his legs, heels skirting Gwaine’s calf restlessly. After a moment Lance offers, “I think, perhaps, loving her from afar, honoring her from afar, is best for the both of us.”

Gwaine presses his hand to the rough stone of the wall above his head and agrees quietly, “Love is pretty messy.”

**5\. The Royal Court of King Ban, dungeons**

“I’ve seen worse,” is the first thing Gwaine says after the guards leave.

To be perfectly honest, Lance has also seen worse. But he’s of a mind to never downplay the horribleness of any dungeon. One never knew if rats or other animals would invite themselves in.

“The smell isn’t that bad.”

It smells like piss and death, but in the scheme of things it really _ isn’t_ that bad. It doesn’t smell of dragon. 

Gwaine toes the rags on the floor and they do turn out to be rags, not the clothes of a rotting skeleton. “I’d give you a list of ways that this could be worse but...”

“You’re afraid someone is listening,” Lance finishes.

“The room more than a person, actually,” Gwaine agrees.

Lance snorts. “You’ve been spending too much time with Merlin.

“Noticed that about him too?” Gwaine grins. “Worst luck I’ve ever seen. Worse than mine even.”

Lance doesn’t say that it comes from serving with Arthur, but he expects he needn’t. Gwaine knows that well enough. 

“There’s even a bed in the corner, look at that,” Gwaine points to the corner of the room where there was a poorly stuffed mattress spilling straw across the floor. Lance expected that there were creatures in it, but sleeping on the floor wouldn’t be any better. 

“It’s small, but we’ll manage,” he agrees. “And we’ll need sleep if we’re to escape in the morning.”

“Who wants to escape when we’ve got a battle to the death to look forward to,” Gwaine asks with a delighted sarcasm, as if nothing pleased him more than laughing off the future their captors plan for them.

Lance finds that laughing isn’t particularly his reaction. He’s seen men die in fights like that, has been forced to fight like that and it still, even now several years beyond, burns in him. He expects that his transgressions are no greater than many other men’s but he’s still compelled to pay for them as many times over as he can.

“You’re not honestly worried, are you?” Gwaine says, right at his shoulder. He’s moved close while Lance has been lost in thought, and now his hand is on Lance’s arm. “We’ll get out of it just fine, even if the others don’t come riding in to save us. And they will. You know how Arthur feels about the glory of a good last minute save.”

“We shouldn’t even have gotten ourselves in this position,” Lance points out. He doesn’t blame Gwaine, and he hopes that’s clear, but their odds dampened considerably the moment they were locked in this cell. 

Gwaine’s expression changes, the amusement always so clear in his eyes dimming. “You’re that concerned.”

“I have--” Lance struggles to articulate why suddenly he is so dour but it’s hard to put into words. Hard to even articulate to himself. “I’ve some experience with the… sport they plan for tomorrow.” Sport for others, not for himself. 

“We all have,” Gwaine says, softly.

Lance considers it but he’s seen Gwaine. He _knows_ Gwaine. Gwaine throws himself into battle to help strangers, he risks his life when he sees the need is great, he never hesitates to give everything he has to his friends. Gwaine, in his own way, might be the best of them. Lance shakes his head. “I don’t think you have.”

Gwaine grabs Lance’s chin, forces him to look up. His expression closed, his eyes lacking their usual gleam. He says, “No home, no family, no friends, no options. Does that not sound familiar? I think we all have done terrible things.”

Lance wants to argue but who is he to say it isn’t true? He bows his head in capitulation, but says "But there is not a man among us that I would not trust with my life."

Gwaine smiles. "Exactly. And you’re sure about it even though you do know we're meant to fight to the death in the morning."

Lance finds himself smiling back, not cheered, exactly, but his spirits bolstered all the same. "Not exactly a new predicament.”

Down the hall there’s a howl, inhuman and tortured.

Gwaine pulls his hands away from Lance, frowning. “Huh. Whatever that is might be," he mutters.

Lance shakes his head. Beasts no longer terrify him as they likely should. "We've both served Arthur too long for that."

Gwaine rolls his eyes. "Are there any mythical creatures that haven't tried to kill him?"

"Oh I'm sure of it. I imagine we'll fight a new one every year of his reign."

Gwaine makes a face. "Now I’m wishing him a short happy reign. Excellent.”

“It’ll be fine,” Lance claps him on the back. “We’re all quite skilled at slaying by now.”

“Right about now, I’m missing undead soldiers,” Gwaine replies.

“Now that you don’t mean,” Lance chides. Morgana and Morgauses’s army had been more than terrifying and Lance hopes to never face the like again.

Gwaine shakes his head like he’s not entirely sure which side of the issue to commit to. Then he waves a hand, giving the whole thing up for loss. He sits down on the ground, and digs through his jacket until he pulls out the dice he always kept for their long journey. “Best two out of three?”

There’s no money left on their persons, and Gwaine refuses to gamble without something concrete. So instead they trade stories, truths, jokes, and favors. Gwaine’s better at the actual gambling, but Lance has a lucky streak in the middle. He gets the true tale of Arthur’s Great Quest (though he’s sure there are things Gwaine doesn’t know about when Merlin was separated from them) and Gwaine’s imitation of Arthur is a thing to cherish. His voice isn’t quite right at times, but the expressions are spot on. 

Lance tells quite a few short stories from his childhood and the years he spent as a soldier for hire. He has a few amusing ones, his life has been not always as he has desired but it’s not been a great tragedy either. Gwaine barters for more stories than truths- “you’re too damned honest already”- and is full out delighted when Lance has to offer up a joke.

“--And that is how we got the goat,” Lance bows.

“You know actual jokes!” Gwaine’s laughing, beside himself, smiling so hard his eyes are slits.

Lance does know jokes, he just doesn’t tell them very well. Not that it seems to bother Gwaine. “Very few jokes,” he says, “and very poorly remembered.”

Gwaine shoves at him. “All of this modesty is going to be the death of me. Does Gwen know you tell jokes and swear like a smithy who’s burned himself?”

“I don’t swear around ladies,” Lance replies, surprised for a moment at how her name doesn’t make his breath go short with joy or sorrow.

Gwaine’s face falls, and he sits up straight. “Sorry, I wasn’t thinking.”

“Don’t apologize,” Lance orders. “There’s nothing to apologize for. If I cannot bear her name then what use am I?” It’s a truth he’s told himself many times, but it’s one that’s gotten easier with the telling.

“Still, it was unnecessary,” Gwaine says, and there’s something in the slope of his shoulders that tells Lance it will be hard to recapture the easiness of the last hour.

“We should try to sleep, I think,” Gwaine says at last. “We have to fight something in the morning. Might as well be at our best.”

Lance stands reluctantly. “True enough,” he agrees, holding out his hand to help Gwaine off the floor.

Gwaine looks… he looks caught out at something and hesitates before he takes Lance’s hand and levers himself off the ground. Lance does not push, just makes his way over to the poorly made mattress and finds two threadbare blankets tucked half behind it. They smell, but so too do the men who will use them, so Lance lays them out over him once he’s settled on the bed. He folds them back for Gwaine.

Gwaine, who is standing on the other side of the cell still, expression troubled and uncertain in the moonlight.

Lance leans up on one elbow. "You all right?”

Gwaine shakes his head, like clearing his thoughts. “Yeah, yes.” He comes over and lays down on the other side of the bed. It’s a pitifully small bed- though that there’s a bed at all is a marvel- and once Gwaine is settled in they are flush against each other. They’ve been closer- they’ve been naked and closer- but Gwaine is so stiff and unmoving that somehow this is far more awkward.

Lance throws the edge of the blankets over Gwaine, who pulls them down without a word. Lance tries not to sigh as he settles himself, one arm tucked under his head, the other tucked against his chest, brushing Gwaine’s back. But he can’t leave things as they are, when Gwaine has done nothing wrong and has no need to seem so miserable.

“Gwaine,” he says, pressing a palm to Gwaine's back.

“I’m fine,” Gwaine says, brusque and unfamiliar. “Really, I’m fine.”

Lance pulls his hand back, tucks it under his other armpit. “All right,” he relents. 

Gwaine only relaxes when he finally succumbs to sleep hours later. Lance watches the hard line of his back all night.

**6\. Camelot, upon return from battle a half day’s ride away**

They weren’t that far out from Camelot when they were attacked so the return from the battle doesn’t take more than a few hours and Lancelot manages to hold his anger in check and not speak to Gwaine the entire ride. 

It’s not a surprise when Gwaine follows him up the stairs, since their rooms are in the same wing of the castle, but Lance reminds Gwaine, furiously, “You should have Gaius tend to your wounds.”

“I’m fine,” Gwaine waves him off.

“You’re not fine,” Lance counters. “You haven’t seen yourself.”

“Just a few bruises,” Gwaine says, turning to take the hall that separates his room from Lance’s. “I’ve had worse.”

It’s Gwaine’s blase attitude that has Lance forgoing his own rooms to follow Gwaine down the hall. “You haven’t had worse, Gwaine. You were a hair’s breadth from dying back there.” 

“That’s an exaggeration, don’t you think?” Gwaine smiles, but it’s ruined by the deep cut on his lip and the already purpling skin all along his left cheek.

“No,” Lancelot says, firmly. “No I do not.” 

Gwaine opens his door and Lancelot follows him inside without even bothering to ask. 

“I do, however, think that you have forgotten that I am perfectly capable of protecting myself and that I do not need you to throw yourself in harm’s way for my sake.”

Gwaine doesn’t say anything to that, which is not the apology or the contrition Lancelot believes he deserves. 

“I’m as good a fighter as you are, Gwaine,” he bites out, almost surprised at how furious he sounds and feels. “What were you thinking?”

Gwaine shrugs. "I wasn't. Not really."

At Lance’s look Gwaine quickly amends, "Well okay, I was. Thinking. About you getting gutted."

Lance is now offended in addition to furious and is about to let his mouth run off, when Gwaine reaches out a bandaged hand and runs it over Lance’s shoulder. "So I didn't think, really. I acted." And Gwaine looks different. Softer and paler and nervous and a little sad.

He looks like a Gwaine Lance does not know. And Lance can’t think of anything to say but a weak protest. "I had it under control."

Gwaine's mouth twists. "You didn't. You were too busy watching Arthur's back. Stupid git has everyone watching his back so nobody's watching their own."

Lance feels a little helpless because he shouldn’t have to explain this to Gwaine. "He's the king."

Gwaine rolls his eyes and shoves Lance toward the door. "And you’re his best knight, Lance. You’re fairly important in your own right."

Lance lets himself be pushed for a second before he decides that he's not done with this. He turns around to stare Gwaine down, make him see sense somehow.

Gwaine meets his eyes unreservedly, an odd smile twisting his mouth, before half whispering, "You're ridiculous."

Lance is compelled to point out, "I didn't throw myself in front of a mace."

Gwaine shrugs, “The shield deflected most of the blow," he says, as if he’d planned for that.

“Of for--” Lance rubs his face and tries for calm but just can’t quite manage it. “This isn’t funny, Gwaine. This isn’t a joke. You almost died and--”

"I couldn't let it bloody touch you,” Gwaine cuts him off. “Do you get that? Are you that obtuse?"

Lance doesn’t get a chance to defend himself. Gwaine’s in his space suddenly, snagging his shirt and hauling him in close until they’re chest to chest and Lance doesn’t get a word in because Gwaine’s mouth is on his, hard and rough and unyielding. Kissing Lance like he’s declaring a war.

It manages to be both the best kiss of Lancelot’s life and also the single worst. Because it’s blissfully unexpected but it also shouldn’t be because Lance has _wondered_. But Gwaine kisses like he fights, putting his whole everything into it because someday there won’t be a tomorrow. And that’s the core of it really. Gwaine kisses like it’s the first and the last and something to remember and keep him warm at night. He kisses Lance with the desperation a man reserves for a gift only given once.

Gwaine kisses him with a fierceness that says everything and then he pulls away.

Lance opens his eyes and he still has his mouth open and he’s not entirely sure what to say. And Gwaine--

Gwaine opens the door and shoves Lancelot out of the room.

Lancelot can outfight nearly any man or any beast he’s come across. His reflexes are his saving grace and the only thing that’s kept his head countless times. But they’ve never done much for his personal relationships. There, it seems, he’s always half a moment too slow. Which is to say that Gwaine gets the door shut before Lance properly recognizes that he’s been pushed out it.

“Open the door, Gwaine!” Lancelot isn’t one for yelling or really even being overly demonstrative in public places. But he’s possibly reached his breaking point and is dearly wishing he had an axe on hand to deal with the door and with Gwaine.

There is the distinct scraping sound of furniture being dragged in front of the door.

“You complete bastard,” Lance hisses at the door.

“Good night Lancelot!” Gwaine shouts through the door, and it sounds like Gwaine’s normal irreverence but it _isn’t_. 

“Open. The. Door.” Lance takes several even breaths.

And when Gwaine doesn’t open the door, Lance takes several more even breaths.

He tries saying please. More than once. He doesn’t shout again, because the breathing helped, but he does threaten once or twice and he does swear revenge on his mother’s grave. But Gwaine does not move the furniture back and he does not open the door.

And Lance stands there, head against the wood, still tasting Gwaine on his lips.

He gives up on the standing after a little while. He’s sore from the saddle and the fighting and climbing all those stairs still in his armor. So he sits next to the door and leans back against the cool wall. And he waits.

He sleeps a little, but he’s not so exhausted that the discomfort of the floor can be ignored. And his head’s too full of questions and stupid, desperate hope to actually relax. Gwaine kissed him. And Gwaine wouldn’t have shoved him into the hall if the kiss didn’t mean something. Gwaine only ever has terrible reactions to things if he sincerely gives a damn.

It doesn’t take Lance all night to decide on a course of action. But it does take most of the night to concede that the simplest course of action is also likely the best.

Morning comes and the furniture is hauled back with a number of inventive curses. Lance stretches as he listens, his shoulders straining with every breath. When the door opens and Gwaine tumbles out of it, his face more mottled as the bruises had set in overnight, he nearly trips over Lancelot’s outstretched feet.

Gwaine’s mouth is agape for a good long moment, but he manages to feign enough indifference to say, “Sleep well?"

Lance does not reply. He just pushes himself jerkily up, his muscles protesting every inch. With not a little effort he shoulders his way through Gwaine's door and makes certain that Gwaine is pulled inside along with him.

Gwaine tries again. "I was going to the kitchens to sneak an early breakfast. Do you want to come?"

Lance has been sitting on cold stone for several hours now. He is tired and hungry and his muscles ache from the last several days of riding and battle. And he could not care less. He makes a low noise, something completely unlike him, and he bodily shoves Gwaine up against the wall and kisses the man as hard and as thoroughly as he is able.

It’s a better kiss this time. After a moment of hand waving and back stiffening in surprise, Gwaine relaxes and there are two people in this kiss. It’s not a war for dominance (though it could be so easily) and it’s nothing particularly sweet. But it’s a dozen different emotions tucked into the corners of their mouths, a hundred conversations between their tongues. A year of battling side by side clinging to the hands Gwaine twines together. 

When they finally break apart, gasping a little, Gwaine keeps his hands clasped to Lance’s, holding him close. He bows his head, forehead resting against Lance’s and he says in a quiet, breathless voice. "I'm just going to make a mess of this. It's not a good idea."

Lance feels something loosen in his chest, warm and giddy. He knows the answer to this, it’s been staring him in the face for so long now. He nudges Gwaine so that the man looks up at him. His expression is so wary but Lance knows him, knows the hope just hiding there. 

Lance smiles and he says, "Love's supposed to be a little messy."


End file.
